


𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦

by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch



Series: Domino 🁡 [34]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FBI Bright, Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Self-Harm, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, reader-driven, suicide by a suspect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch
Summary: Selecting 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.Read this story at:https://www.thedominostory.com/#the-picture-of-dorian-grayThis book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read thePrefaceorIntroduction, please head there first.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly
Series: Domino 🁡 [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1
Collections: Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts





	𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐷𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts), [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Picture of Dorian Gray](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685378) by Oscar Wilde. 



> This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the [Preface](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin) or [Introduction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin), please head there first.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/), [MissScorp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/), and [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/).
> 
> Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:  
>  **— Inspiration:**[The Picture of Dorian Gray](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Picture_of_Dorian_Gray) \- Oscar Wilde  
>  **— Cover Song:**[A Satisfied Mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QphglQu3oL0) \- Johnny Cash

[](https://www.thedominostory.com/images/full/the-picture-of-dorian-gray.jpg) |   
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Malcolm looked in the mirror. It was strange how he could see none of the scars his soul carried in the pristine image looking back at him.

The carefully combed hair, the unblemished, smooth skin, and the shiny, bright eyes said nothing about how exhausted and troubled he felt inside. It mocked him, teasing him with how easy it was to conceal it all. To pretend.

Malcolm had started pretending the day he stepped inside Quantico and he hadn't stopped since.

What would his FBI colleagues and superiors say if they ever got a glimpse of the real him? Of Malcolm Whitly instead of Malcolm Bright?

He had killed a man that day.

The reports would say that the killer committed suicide, but Malcolm knew better. Had he not been there, that man would still be alive.

The whole situation had been bad luck and the worst timing on his part. Malcolm had been following a lead, a lead that everyone thought was a dead end, despite the fact that Malcolm had assured them that the killer would follow the pattern he had projected for him and would be in that exact bookstore on that particular day.

They had laughed, reminding the young man that profiling was a science, not guesswork or cartomancy tricks.

They had been wrong. About the lead, that is. Because the killer had showed up. And Malcolm was the only one there to greet him.

Despite the fact he had no backup, it was not a situation from which he could simply walk away. Basil Hallward had already killed five men at that point; the odds of him killing five more before they had another chance of catching him were too astronomical to ignore.

So Malcolm had tried to capture him on his own. And he would have succeeded, had it not been for the bystander who had taken a look at Malcolm holding a gun and decided to play the hero by smashing a chair over Malcolm's head.

By the time he had been able to make the world stop spinning and focus on his surroundings, everyone had already escaped the bookstore. Except for one man.

The killer hadn't run. He was far too cocky and confident to be afraid of a single man and he knew he had time before the cops showed up.

The profiler had looked around in despair, trying to locate his fallen gun, but it was nowhere to be found. The killer had a gun of his own, its black muzzle inches from Malcolm's forehead.

In that moment, survival had become the only thought on Malcolm's mind. There had been no room for uncertainty, past traumas, or doubting his abilities. He knew the killer better than the killer knew himself and Malcolm had no qualms about using that power to his advantage.

Words, when used the right way, could cause more damage than bullets, be sharper than knives. This, Malcolm had known all of his life; after all, he had learned the art of manipulation from the very best.

He fleshed out the killer's own insecurities; he dangled his childhood traumas in his face, digging deeper and deeper until all that was left in front of him was a broken man who no longer had any reason to live.

By the time Malcolm realized he had pushed too far, it was too late.

Basil Hallward killed himself, but Malcolm Whitly had been the one with his finger on the trigger.

To the FBI, the case had been an absolute victory. One less serial killer at large in the USA with zero civilian casualties. Malcolm's reputation as the weird agent who didn't work well as a team member would remain the same, but after seeing that he had been right, they would listen more carefully the next time around.

No one would mourn Basil's death and there was no desire to look for someone to blame for his demise.

Except for Malcolm and his reflection in the mirror, the only ones who knew the truth.

He had enjoyed _it_.

That feeling of being on the floor facing the business end of a gun and still being the one in control of the situation. It had been exhilarating, a shot of sugar, coffee, adrenaline and crack, all mixed together in his veins, making his senses laser sharp and his reflexes faster than light. He had reveled in it!

And like all addictive substances, Malcolm knew that one time was not going to be enough. He wanted more.

Was this his tainted blood talking?

He looked in the mirror, but the image was still the same. For a brief moment, he was sure he had seen his father there, looking back at him with a proud smile upon his face.

How could his reflection be so familiar and completely alien at the same time? Malcolm looked, but he could not see himself.

The image in the mirror snarled at him. Malcolm startled, sure that he had imagined it. He looked harder, straining his eyes and forcing himself not to blink.

His reflection snarled again, an ugly, tainted version of Malcolm's own smile, filled with contempt and dominance. A predator looking at his prey, deciding which part to eat first.

The profiler stepped back, closing his eyes. Focused on his breathing. Counting to five. In and out. One. In and out. Two...

Even with his eyes closed, Malcolm could feel that image staring back at him, judging him. He looked at the mirror, finding himself looking back, head tilted to the side, like the reflection pitied what it was seeing.

Malcolm turned on the water faucet, throwing cold water against his face like a drowning man in the face of a fresh spring. He hadn't slept in days, he had forgotten to take his medication earlier, this was nothing more than the combined effect of those two poor life choices on his part. Nothing a good night’s sleep and returning to his scheduled medication wouldn't fix.

In the mirror, his image was picking at a sore on the right side of his face. Instinctively, Malcolm's hand flew to the same spot on his face. Under his fingers, he could feel nothing but smooth skin and the prickliness of stubble.

The reflection was still smiling as he pushed his nails deeper and deeper, pulling at the dead skin like he was peeling a banana.

Malcolm gagged, even as he found that he could not look away. He stared mesmerized as the skin pulled away, flesh dropping like ripe fruit, revealing the bone underneath. But instead of bone, his skull looked rotten, riddled with pores and sores, sickly looking.

Malcolm lost his struggle with nausea, turning around in a hurry and dropping to his knees in a barely aimed effort as his stomach contents came churning out. There was nothing but bile to spit up, but still his body tried its best to evict itself through his throat.

His hands shook as he grabbed onto the toilet seat like it was his life boat. The world was spinning around him and he closed his eyes, willing the hallucination to go away. Willing what he saw to be a hallucination.

Because, hadn't he just wished that his reflection would do justice to what he felt like inside? Malcolm knew he was rotten, a bad apple fallen from his father's tree, a monster waiting to happen.

Why was he hiding from himself?

A hot breath against the back of his neck made Malcolm gasp. He was alone in his apartment. No one else had a key to the place and he knew there was no one there.

The breath came again, faster this time, excited to be discovered.

Malcolm turned slowly, terrified of what he would find, even though he knew exactly what he would see.

His mind was anything but predictable. As he turned, Malcolm found himself faced with the reflection from the mirror, standing inches apart from him, sharing his breath, smirking at him. The right side of its face was gone, nothing but bone showing underneath the peeled skin, a black, dead eye staring at him.

“You're not real,” Malcolm informed the terrifying being, hoping that it would disappear when faced with its own lack of existence.

Instead, the reflection deepened its smile, caressing the side of Malcolm's face like it envied the unbroken skin. “Malcolm... we're the same!”

— ◌◯◌ —

"Gil, it's likely something from the scene," rushes out of JT's mouth when Gil accepts the call. His phone had buzzed several times, but it had only just come enough into the forefront that he was able to bring himself to answer it.

"What?"

"Edrisa thinks Bright was exposed to something on scene."

Gil's stomach lurches that the rest of the team could be in trouble. "Are you all okay?" Jessica's eyes pop over to him, the same question reflected in them.

"Yes. Everyone's fine — we're waiting on the HazMat all clear. Sounds like we’ll be able to go back in shortly. Any word on Bright?"

Gil nods to Jessica. "No. It's not good, JT." He bites back the urge to admit to someone that he briefly thought the kid ODed. He can't tell Jessica — she's already keyed up sitting beside him — and JT is the first contact he's had. "Look, I don't know when I'm going to be able to get back."

"Don't even worry about it, man. He's family — you've gotta be there."

"You're on point, okay? Like we've talked about. Keep me updated, and I'll do whatever I can from here." There’s a plan in place for this — they’ve talked about JT’s career trajectory, and it’s the best call to make to keep things moving.

"Okay. We've got it."

"I know you do. Anything, JT — you call. Look after each other."

"Yes, boss."

Gil hangs up and Jessica squeezes his knee. "They think something at the scene caused this," he shares dejectedly, now knowing he's responsible for Bright's current state.

"Can you tell the doctor what? Maybe that'll help — "

"They don't know." He tries to temper her enthusiasm and rests his hand on top of hers.

"That _damn_ job," she mutters.

Gil lets the comment go — it's not worth arguing in the hospital. The two of them sitting together, his mind drifts, thinking about what Bright could have possibly been exposed to on scene.

Or better yet, what he couldn't have gotten into.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Head back to the [Bookshelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin) to pick another book. :)


End file.
